Page 2 of Meesha & Connor (What Happens In Vegas #2)

Winter Bay looks exactly as I left it four days ago—snow still piled in dirty heaps along the sidewalks, the lakefront barely visible through winter’s haze.

As the Uber turns onto Connor’s street, I immediately spot his sleek Olympus Titan in the driveway, its metallic finish reflecting the mid-morning winter light.

I smile despite my anxiety, remembering how he surprised me with my midnight-blue Olympus Nyx last birthday. It was a perfect complement to his larger SUV.

“His and hers Olympus vehicles,” he’d said with that crooked smile. “Yours is smaller and more efficient, just like you.”

Home safe. Text when you can. Have fun with your man!

The pulsing anxiety in my chest only intensifies. We switched to an earlier flight, but neither Jessa nor Jasmine seemed disappointed to cut our trip short. In fact, they both seemed oddly eager to get home, lost in their own thoughts during the entire flight.

A flash of crimson catches my eye—a cardinal perched on a branch of the tree in Connor’s front yard. I pull out my phone to capture it, holding my breath as I zoom in.

Just as I snap the photo, the bird takes flight, leaving a perfect streak of red against the white backdrop. I smile at the image, grateful for the momentary distraction.

I turn to the two-story house Connor bought four years ago with our future in mind. Despite being in our twenties, we’ve never lived together.

My parents were adamantly against it without marriage, and I couldn’t bring myself to defy them. Connor had been disappointed but understood, so we compromised with frequent overnight stays and vacations instead.

My fingers hesitate for only a second before punching in the code—our anniversary. The keypad beeps its approval, and the lock clicks open.

I step inside, greeted by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and ESPN’s familiar drone from the living room. Dropping my bag and luggage by the door, I look at the photos lining the hallway.

Images capture us in Cancun, hiking the Adirondacks in matching flannel shirts, feeding each other beignets in New Orleans with powdered sugar on our noses. Four years of memories carefully framed and arranged, each one a reminder of what I risked.

My eyes land on the newest addition from Christmas at my mother’s house in Ruby Coast. I’m opening the small velvet box, mouth open in surprise, while Connor watches intently. I touch my engagement ring unconsciously.

The sound of running water grows louder as I climb the stairs. I slip off my shoes after entering his bedroom, then my jeans. By the time I reach the bathroom door, I’m down to nothing but guilt and bare skin.

I ease the door open. Through the fogged glass shower door, I can make out Connor’s broad shoulders, his head tilted back under the spray. Water cascades down his muscled body.

My own body responds to the sight, and I move closer, sliding the shower door open. Connor spins around, eyes wide with surprise, water droplets clinging to his dark lashes.

“Meesha?” His voice, deep and tinged with that French-Canadian accent that still makes my knees weak, wraps around me. “What are you—I thought your return was scheduled for tonight?”

I step into the shower, letting the hot water sluice over my travel-worn body. “Surprise,” I manage, my voice catching. “We got an earlier flight.”

His strong hands find my waist, pulling me against him. The familiar contours of his body press against mine, and I forget the Vegas lights, the stranger’s lips, the crushing weight of what I’ve done.

“This is some surprise, ma belle.” His mouth curves into that half-smile that’s been making my heart skip since I was sixteen. His hands slide up my back, leaving trails of heat. “I missed you.”

A terrible thought flashes through my mind. Would he still touch me like this if he knew? Would his hands still worship my body, or would they push me away?

The fear makes me cling to him more desperately. I twine my arms around his neck, pressing my body flush against his. If I can just get close enough, maybe I can erase the memory of another man’s touch.

“I need you right now,” I whisper against his lips, desperate to feel only him, to remember why what we have is worth fighting for. Worth saving.

His eyes darken, but there’s something questioning in them too. Does he know? Can he sense it?

“Meesha...” His accent thickens when he’s emotional, my name becoming something exotic on his tongue. “Is everything okay?”

I silence his question with a kiss, pouring my love, my guilt, my fear. My hands tangle in his wet hair as the steam rises around us, shrouding us in a world where nothing exists but this man.

His hands slide down to cup my ass, pulling me against his growing hardness. I can feel his need, urgent and insistent, pressing against my stomach. I break away from his lips, trailing kisses down his neck, his chest, until I’m on my knees.

I take him into my mouth, swirling my tongue around his shaft. He groans, his hands finding their way into my wet braids. I can taste the faint saltiness of his pre-cum, feel the silky smoothness of his skin. I take him deeper, relishing the feel of him.

His hips move slowly at first, then faster, matching the rhythm of my mouth. The water cascades over us, dripping from his body onto my face as I take him deeper still.

His grip on my head tightens, his muscles tensing. I can feel his orgasm building, but before he can reach the peak, he pulls me to my feet.

“Not like this,” he growls. “I want to be inside you.”

In one motion, he lifts me and presses my back against the cold tiles. He hitches my leg up around his shoulder, his cock poised at my entrance.

“Connor,” I whimper when he thrusts into me, hard and deep.

My nails dig into his shoulders, holding on as he moves. The steam surrounds us, creating a cocoon of heat and desire.

His hips pound against mine, each thrust pushing me harder against the wall. The sensation is intense, almost overwhelming, but I want more. I always want more from him.

His mouth finds mine again, his tongue mimicking the movements of his hips. I can taste his desperation, his love, his all-consuming need for me. It matches my own.

“You feel so good, Meesha,” he groans against my mouth. “So fucking good.”

My orgasm hits me like a freight train, tearing through my body, leaving me gasping and shaking in its wake. Connor follows soon after, his body tensing as he spills into me.

“That was quite the homecoming,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

“I missed you.”

He reaches for a towel, wrapping it around me with tenderness before grabbing one for himself. “How was Vegas?”

My stomach drops. “I had fun with my girls, but I’m glad to be back and even more excited to marry you.”

Connor nods as he opens the bathroom door, letting the steam escape. “I should probably warn you—”

“Let’s get dressed first,” I interrupt. “I’m freezing.”

Connor pulls on a pair of sweatpants, leaving his chest bare. Even after all these years, his broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his waistband make my mouth dry.

He catches me staring, and his answering smile warms me from the inside out. “Come ‘ere, ma belle,” he says softly, holding out his hand.

I take it, letting him pull me against his chest. His fingers trace my cheekbone.

“Tu sais ce que je me rappelle? You know what I remember?” he asks, his voice low.

“What?”

“That hockey game where we met. When my puck almost hit you?”

I laugh softly. “Malcolm was so mad when you insisted on taking us for dinner.”

Malcolm had been my boyfriend for barely a week, and we hadn’t even kissed yet. We were supposed to after the hockey game.

“And even madder when you left with me instead,” he says, pride evident in his voice. “Best decision I ever made was choosing Winter Bay over Montreal, là. Everyone said I was crazy, but j’le savais.”

“Knew what?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“That you were worth it, ma belle. Always have been.” He presses his forehead against mine. “Everything is better with you, oui?”

I swallow hard. This is why I said yes. This is what I’d be throwing away.

Ten minutes later, we’re heading down the stairs, my braids still damp, but at least I’m clothed in one of Connor’s sweatshirts that smells like him. His hand rests on the small of my back. I’m just about to ask what he was going to warn me about when the front door swings open.

I freeze.

Vivienne Beauregard, Connor’s mother, sweeps in like a winter storm. Her silver-streaked dark hair is loose about her shoulders. Behind her follows a tall, willowy blonde woman who looks vaguely familiar.

“Ah! C’est Meesha!” Vivienne’s perfectly painted lips curve into what might generously be called a smile. Her French-Canadian accent is thicker than Connor’s, each word enunciated.

My stomach clenches, but I stretch my lips into a bright smile. Years of nursing had perfected my ability to look composed while panicking inside.

“Hello, Vivienne,” I manage, my voice honeyed with a warmth I don’t feel.

Acutely aware of my bare legs and lack of underwear, I tug at the hem of the jersey, wishing it were three inches longer.

Connor rubs my back. “Maman, j’pensais pas que tu r’viendrais si t?t,” he says, slipping into French.

The blonde woman closes the door, her eyes flickering between Connor and me.

She has high cheekbones, clear skin, and dressed in an ankle-length winter jacket.

The woman offers a small smile as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze briefly dropping to the floor before meeting mine with what looks like discomfort.

“Le restaurant était trop plein,” Vivienne says, removing her gloves one finger at a time. “This is Frédérique. You know her already, I think? From before?” Vivienne gestures to the other woman.

My mind races. Frédérique... the name clicks into place.

Connor’s ex-girlfriend from Montreal. The one he dated before moving to Winter Bay. The one his mother adored.

“Maman came back with me yesterday. She’s staying until the wedding.” Connor won’t meet my eyes. “Her hip replacement recovery is taking longer than expected.”

Vivienne settles herself on the arm of the sofa, surveying me. “The doctors, they insist I need full-time care. Frédérique—she was kind enough to come with me, là. She leave her life in Montréal for me.”

I turn to Connor. “Isn’t she your ex?”

Before Connor can answer, Vivienne laughs lightly. “Oh, they were just children then. Frédérique has been like a daughter to me for years.”

“And is Frédérique staying here too?” I ask, looking directly at Connor.

“Of course she will stay here! Where else would she go?” Vivienne interjects smoothly. “Frédérique needs to be close to monitor my recovery.”

I take a deep breath, forcing a tight smile that feels like it might crack my face. “Connor, can I speak with you for a moment? Privately?”

“Of course. Excuse us,” he says to his mother and Frédérique.

I lead him to the kitchen, waiting until we’re out of earshot before turning to face him. “What the hell, Connor?” I hiss, keeping my voice low but unable to hide my anger. “Your ex-girlfriend is staying at your house? And you didn’t think to mention this to me?”